


In the Hands of the Goddess

by tranquilsea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death's Wife - Freeform, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Master of Death, Multi, New Family, Rescued! Harry, Some Plot, Strange folk, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-01-08 17:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12258942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tranquilsea/pseuds/tranquilsea
Summary: A strange young maiden comes to visit a nine year old Harry and offers him a home.OR Death's Wife takes a personal interest in the future Master of Death's life, and is determined to change it for the better. The consequences of being raised by strange folk, but a loving family,  causes ripple changes in future events and reveals some secrets.Warning: OCness and plot-bunnies abound. Currently on hiatus.





	1. Chapter 1

 

As always,  _Harry Potter_ is owned by J.K.Rowling. I own nothing! The title of the story is taken from the series,  _The Song of the Lioness_ , by Tamora Pierce.

This work has not been beta-ed, so may have various mistakes etc. 

* * *

 

The maiden stared down at the figure of the small, slight young boy before her. He was kneeling on the ground, tending to the plants, the sleeve of his oversized shirt rolled up to his sleeves. His head was bent in concentration, cold autumnal air fluffing his dark, unruly hair as he continued his task. So intent was the boy on what he was doing, he had not even heard the maiden approach.

She put a gentle head on the boy’s skinny -too skinny- shoulder.

“Oh!” exclaimed the boy, his emerald green eyes snapping up in surprise. He quickly wiped his bare hands on his too thin, grubby shirt, and began to rise as he politely inquired: “Are you here to see my Aunt, Miss? I can take you to her, if you want.”

“No,” replied the maiden kindly, stopping the boy as he began to make his way from the side of the house to the main door. “I am here for you, Mr. Potter.”

The boy looked at her, the maiden in a sharp grey suit, and gave her a smile that did not reach his luminous green eyes. “Yes miss.”

The boy did not seem surprised at the maiden’s sudden appearance, seemingly relaxed as the maiden prepared to question him. Yet very so often, his eyes would flash to the nearby window of the house, as if someone inside was closely watching and listening to this interaction.

“Do you like gardening?”  asked the maiden.

“Yes, miss,” softly replied the boy. “My Aunt doesn’t like mess much though, so she makes me wear stuff I can get messy in.”

The boy gestured with a still slightly grubby hand towards his shirt and scruffy trousers. It sounded like a perfectly valid excuse, were it not for the rehearsed manner in which it was said.

The maiden smiled reassuringly at the boy. It would only serve to panic the boy is she did not play along with his excuses.

“Are you not cold, Harry?”

The boy shook his head a fraction too quickly. “I did have a sweater on, but I got too sweaty, so I decided to take it off.”

“Do you have any other hobbies, Harry?”

“Of course, miss,” replied the boy, in a way that was meant to imply the stupidity of her question. It was a tone that was meant to make her think the boy ‘normal’ despite his skinny frame and ragged clothes.

“Tell me about some of your hobbies,” the maiden said in an encouraging tone.

“My aunt is teaching me how to cook, miss. I like to try out new recipes,” the boy replied, not a hint of a lie in his young voice.

“That’s good, Harry. Your Aunt- and Uncle- seem to be taking good care of you,” the maiden said as the boy’s eyes flickered to the nearby window in relief.

“Yes miss,” replied the boy. He wiped his hands uncertainly on his shirt. “Is that all miss?”

“Not yet, Harry,” replied the maiden, bending down towards him. She made sure that every motion was clear, that her manner was unthreatening as her golden curls hid them from the window’s prying eyes.

Making sure her blue eyes were fixed firmly on Harry’s own, the maiden said: “I am but a stranger now, but if you would like, we could be friends.”

The boy gawked at the maiden, suspicion alighting in his green eyes, as if to ask: “Me?”

The maiden continued: “If you have need of me, simply speak my name three times: Carlyn.”

“Caroline?” repeated the boy softly. “Like a spell?”

“Yes,” answered the maiden Carlyn, and rose back to their full height.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” she said formally, but made sure the too tiny boy could see the kind expression in her eyes.

The boy nodded uncertainly, the suspicion from earlier not quite leaving his emerald eyes as the maiden lifted her hands in blessing.

* * *

 

It was shorter time than Carolyn expected that the boy first called upon her.

The boy was curled in around himself, his scrawny arms clutching tightly around his legs. Silent tears streaked across his face as he sought to control the soft sobs that tremored through his frame.

He had spoken the name because he knew no other name to call.

“Harry?” appealed the maiden, attempting to get the emotional boy to look at her, and at least recognise her presence.

The boy did not reply, quietly rocking himself as he supressed his emotions. He sat, hidden in a quiet corner of the local primary school, his back against the damp brick wall. The boy’s black shoes looked tired and torn, but were slightly hidden by his somewhat too long grey school trousers.

The maiden sat down beside the boy as she began to distinguish words from his incoherent cries.

“Freak,” cried the boy, “No one wants a freak like me.”

“That is not true, Harry,” replied the maiden, gently taking the boy’s hand. Even his fingers felt bony and undersized.  “My husband and I have wanted to adopt you for a long, long time. You are very much wanted, Harry.”

“Not me,” sobbed the boy, dragging his free hand roughly across his face, wiping away most of the snot and tears. “Not a freak like me.”

“We- I- want you to be, if you wish it, our son one day,” the maiden declared.

“You’re lying,” stated the boy simply, looking at her accusingly with his sharp green eyes. “If you had wanted me at all, you’d come for me before I was a freak.”  


“I’m sorry, Harry,” apologized the maiden, the sorrow in her voice clear and sincere. “I’m so sorry we could not speak to you until recently- we were not allowed to.”

“Because I’m a freak.”

“No,” replied the maiden. “The protections around you are fierce and required that you be able to choose what you wanted.”

“To choose?” asked the boy doubtfully. The look on his face told her that he was already calculating the price of this choice, what Carlyn would demand in return.

“A choice that is not to be made lightly, Harry. We wish to be your parents and guardians – but only if you want.”

“Course I want it- _anyone_ would be better than the Dursleys!” exclaimed the boy, unshed tears glimmering in his expressive eyes.

Carlyn did not reply, her hand simply resting on the boy’s in a reassuring manner.

The boy seemed to understand, as he already did so much of the adult world for a boy of nine. “You want to figure out how much a _freak_ I am before you adopt me?” the boy asked harshly.

“No,” responded the maiden, “We want you to get to know us, and choose whether you would like strange folk like Arawn and I to be your parents.”

“Well,” said the boy, standing up and away for her, “even ‘strange folk’ like you miss don’t need me.”

* * *

 

Before the maiden could say a word, the boy darted off, around the corner and back towards his classroom where lessons had resumed.

“What did you mean by ‘strange folk’?” asked the boy a few weeks later. He was yet again outside in his gardening clothes, shirt more torn and grubby than ever as he washed the Dursley’s car with a soapy sponge.

“You can’t be as freaky as me,” the boy proclaimed, and gave the maiden a challenging look.

She simply smiled enigmatically in response.

“Would you like some help?” she asked, gesturing towards the car.

“I don’t think my Aunt would like that, miss.”

“Carlyn,” corrected the maiden.

“I don’t think my Aunt would like that, Miss Caroline,” replied the boy cheekily.

Carlyn chuckled. “I’m not here to give your Aunt what she wants,” she waggled her fine eyebrows in a mischievous manner as she rolled up the sleeves of her pristine white shirt. With a spare cloth, she began wiping off the slight dirt and debris from the relatively clean car. It was quick, yet tiring work.

The boy stepped back to admire their progress. Although not a professional clean, the car faintly gleamed in the light. With Carlyn’s help, Harry had been able to manoeuvre the heavy hoover to vacuum the interior of the car.

Just as the maiden was about to congratulate the boy on a job well done, the front door of the house, and out appeared a whale of a man.

“Boy!” he barked imperiously, his many chins wobbling in anger. “I told you to clean that car until-” and seeing the maiden standing at the other side of the said anger and through clenched teeth continued: “Until you managed to wipe the muck from the dashboard.”

The large man waddled up to the maiden, and leaning towards her in a conspiratorial manner, said in a loud whisper: “Our boy Dursley is as good as gold.  But my wife’s nephew here sometimes likes to make trouble. Discipline, I told her.”

“Unlike our Dudders, Harry needs to be taught that breaking the rules have consequences.” The ugly man did not even bother to hide the blatant threat in his tone.

“I have to disagree, Mr. Dursley,” countered the maiden, her tone polite. In her smart white shirt and long black skirt, she looked like one of the many business people who lived in the middle-class area around Privet Drive. Yet the maiden had defended the boy more than any of the interfering, judgemental busy-bodies in the neighbourhood.

The boy gave her a quiet, lopsided smile in gratitude.

“Well,” harrumphed the boy’s Uncle, drawing his massive girth up in anger. “I came to fetch Harry for dinner.” Here he glared meaningfully with his small piggy eyes at the boy, as he made his way back to the house.

“I’m just saying goodbye to Miss Caroline,” called the boy as his Uncle slammed the front door behind him.

In the silence that followed, Harry began to neatly pack away the cleaning tools. In the blue plastic bucket went the sponges and cloths.

“Thanks for helping me with the car and my Uncle,” said the boy politely.

“It was my pleasure, Harry.”

The boy looked down at the blue plastic bucket he was holding. “Sometimes I dream that it will work,” he admitted, in a small shameful voice.

“Family’s supposed to help each other. Do you think that’s what my Aunt and Uncle are doing, to help me be less _me_?” asked the boy, but the sad, adult way he asked the question said he already knew the answer but hoped for another.

“They are not helping you by making you anything other than ‘Harry’”.

The boy nodded, and looked up at her. “I thought so,” he said, sounding older than ever. His green eyes pierced hers. “I had hoped that _maybe_ , maybe if I could become normal, this could be home. But this place will never be home, will it?”

The maiden did not answer, and waited for the boy to continue.

“I think I’d like to go home now,” he said, putting the blue plastic bucket down.

“Of course, Harry,” and the maiden took his small hand in her one. Hand in hand, the boy and the maiden walked down the street away from the house.


	2. The Witch's Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor McGonagall visits Number 4 Privet Drive to inform Harry about his enrollment into Hogwarts. She came prepared to deal with the worst sort of people, but not the news that the Dursleys believed Harry had been dead for the past eleven years.

As always, Harry Potter is owned by J.K.Rowling. I own nothing! The title of the story is taken from the series, _The Song of the Lioness_ , by Tamora Pierce. This work has not been beta-ed, so may have various mistakes etc.

* * *

 

Through the pristine white curtains, the neighbors peered at the strange visitor who had appeared at Number 4 Privet Drive.

A stern looking elderly woman was ringing the doorbell.  She rang it once, then twice. When there was no answer, she knocked at the door with a firm rap.

It was not the old lady’s appearance that had caused the stir in the neighbourhood. Rather it was the fact that anyone had come to visit the reclusive Dursley family at all. The peering neighbours could not remember the last time someone had come to this door, unless it was eleven years ago when that tragedy had struck the poor Dursley family.

The watchers at the windows wondered with ghoulish interest whether this visitor had brought more bad tiding to the family at Number 4.

Before the busy bodies could learn anymore about the visitor, the door to Number 4 opened, and the stranger ushered inside.

* * *

 

Number 4 was a neat and orderly home. In the small hallway where the stairs led up to the second floor, there was shoes and coats neatly stacked and hung away in their appointed place on the hooks and racks along the wall.

“I knew one day you people would come, “said the mistress of the house, her horsey face set in a grimace of dislike. She looked over the visitor with her brown beady eyes, scrutinizing her closely.

“I don’t suppose I could keep you from entering my home even I wanted to. One wave of your little stick, and I’d be handing you the contents of my bank account without argument.” Mrs. Petunia Dursley turned away from the visitor, who had not yet moved from the threshold of the door. She waved a perfectly manicured claw at the visitor, gesturing her towards the living room at the front of the house.

Left alone to her own devices, the visitor unbuttoned her smart tartan lined mac coat and hung it on one of the hooks provided, and made her way to the living room.

“Thank you for letting me into your home, Mrs. Dursley,” said the visitor as she politely settled herself on the armchair indicated by Mrs. Dursley.

Returning from the kitchen that connected to the living room, Mrs. Dursley sat down with a clutter a decorated plate of cookies on the low wooden coffee table, and perched herself on the couch across from her visitor. “Once I have answered your questions, you will leave,” commanded Mrs. Dursley, and rose her long and skinny neck in challenge.

The visitor bowed her head slightly and placed her gloved hands carefully in her lap.

At this gesture, the mistress of the household seemed to relax, but her sharp eyes remained watchful. One of her hands clutched at the white pearls around her neck.

“I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School-”

Here Mrs. Dursley clutched at her peals even harder. “I will have no mention of that-that _freakishness_ in my household,” she shrieked, her face going red in anger.

“I’m afraid, Mrs. Dursley, that although I am a visitor in your household, I must speak my part.” The old lady looked imperiously at Mrs. Dursley, a queen in a long purple skirt and a lilac cardigan.

“As I was saying, I am the Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is usually customary for one of the more senior staff to arrange visits with the households where it is felt the new incumbent students might have difficulty transitioning between the Mundane world and the Magical one.”

At this, Mrs. Dursley threw her head back, and gave a braying, disbelieving laugh. “You’re here for Harry!”

“Yes,” replied the Professor, her Scottish accent becoming more pronounced in her anger. “I am here for Harry.! 

“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Dursley,” continued the Professor, pointing to the new electric fireplace and the carefully arranged pictures above the fireplace, “But I notice there are no pictures of your nephew anywhere in the house!”

Mrs. Dursley gaped at the Professor like an ugly fish. “Of course I have no pictures of the boy!” she exclaimed.

The Professor stood up angrily, reaching into her large and sturdy bag, and thrust a letter into Mrs. Dursley’s face. Written in thick ink, the envelope read:

_Mr. H. Potter_

_Home_

_The Cosy Nursery_

“I know Mr. Potter is here, Mrs. Dursley. Produce him at once!” demanded Professor McGonagall.

At this, Mrs. Dursley gave another laugh that subsided into hoarse sobs. Wrenching the envelope from the Professor’s hands, Mrs. Dursley sat with a thud on the couch. Her fingers traced the name on the envelope. “I always thought _Harry_ was such a nasty, common name. It was only when one of your people gave the death certificate that I discovered Lily had named him after our grandfather, Harrison.”

 Mrs. Dursley’s brown eyes looked into the Professor’s own, and shoved the envelope back into her hands. “So you see now why I cannot _produce_ my nephew for you.”

“That is complete hogwash, Mrs. Dursley. Your nephew is alive!” exclaimed the Professor.

“No!” declared Mrs. Dursley fiercely, her swallow cheeks flushed red in anger. “Your folk came to my door eleven years ago and told me what had happened to my poor sister and that man she married because of that awful terrorist! I had to bury what remained of their bodies.”

The Professor leant over the emotional Mrs. Dursley and pointed to the address on the envelope. “These letters are enchanted. They give the address of where each potential student is to be most commonly found. Your nephew is alive at “Home, The Cosy Nursery”. Magic will find Mr. Potter, and return him to you.”

At this, Mrs. Dursley looked up sharply at the Professor, and shook her head in disbelief. “They told me he died in that nursery in that god-awful cottage eleven years ago. Wherever that boy is, he is happier than he would ever be here. I doubt this house could ever be a home to him- he belongs with the rest of you _freaks._ ” 


	3. The Squib's Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neville Longbottom finds the Boy Who Lived on the train to Hogwarts.
> 
> Unfortunately, he just so happens to be in the carriage with a crazy man who thinks worry warts are real creatures and that something called snorlacks exist.

As always,  _Harry Potter_ is owned by J.K.Rowling. I own nothing! The title of the story is taken from the series,  _The Song of the Lioness_ , by Tamora Pierce.

This work has not been beta-ed, so may have various mistakes etc. 

Additionally, the quote " _Deep roots are not reached by the frost_ " is from a poem featured in  _The Lord of the Rings_ by JRR Tolkien.

* * *

 

He had looked and looked in every compartment up and down the train and still hadn’t found where he could sit. Neville Longbottom wiped his slightly sweaty face with the back of his hand, and tentatively raised his hand to knock at the very last compartment at the rear of the train. He tapped uncertainly- he could only see two people through the opaque glass of the door, but that didn’t mean that they would want him to sit there. The spare seats were most likely being saved for friends or other students, people who belonged at Hogwarts unlike a squib like him. When there was no reply, he opened the door and peaked his head inside.

Sitting nearby the window was a boy around Neville’s age, black and unruly hair framing his face. He was already wearing his school robes, the black tie with the Hogwarts crest proudly emblazoned on it tied much more impressively than Neville could ever manage. The boy gave Neville a shy smile.

On the left-hand side of the carriage sat a crazy man. His short blonde hair looked like it had caught the wrong end of a disarming charm, it was so standing on end. His wide blue eyes caught Neville’s own, and without asking Neville, yanked him into the carriage.

“Mind the snorlacks,” said the crazy man as Neville shrank away, “they tend to block the path.” He reached up to shake Neville’s hand- or so Neville thought until the man began to make picking and plucking motions with his hands around Neville.

Once the man was done with his absurd task, he opened his palm to reveal his empty hand. “There!” he exclaimed, and heartily shook Neville’s still extended hand. “Xenophilius Lovegood, editor of the Quibbler.” A strange triangle-eyed pendant on a golden chain winked at him from underneath Mr. Lovegood’s eye-wateringly bright yellow robes.

“N-Neville Longbottom, sir,” stuttered the flummoxed boy. There was no chance that Neville could flee back to the safety of the train corridor, as Mr. Lovegood had already pulled the compartment door firmly closed behind him.

“He did that to me too,” confided the boy who had smiled at Neville earlier. He gestured for Neville to come sit in the empty seat beside him. With a relieved thunk, Neville sat next to the boy.

It was only on closer inspection that Neville realised what was hiding underneath the strange boy’s fringe- a scar in the shape of a jagged lightning bolt.

“You’re Harry Potter!” Neville exclaimed, looking at the boy in open mouthed astonishment.

“So hard to please youngsters nowadays,” said Mr. Lovegood, “Produce an eleven-year-old boy and they act as if they’ve won the Quidditch world cup, but prove the existence of worry warts and _nothing_.”

Perhaps this was why one of the most famous- of not the most famous wizard currently alive was here, in the very last carriage. It was the only one whose occupant was crazy enough not to care that _Harry Potter_ was sitting across from him. This was the boy who was to have said to have survived the killing curse and defeated the dark wizard, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named himself. But Mr. Lovegood probably only saw a first year, on the train to Hogwarts for the very first time, and was already feeling slightly homesick.

“I’m sorry mate,” apologized Neville, feeling guilty for the way he had sprung at poor Harry.  “I shouldn’t have reacted that way. Forget it and let’s be friends?”

“Thanks, Neville,” replied Harry, giving Neville a grateful smile. “I’m not here to be what everyone wants me to be- I’m here to do my best and learn everything I can.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Xeno. “Ravenclaw would help you in that ambition- ‘ _Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure!’_ ”

“My Gran says that the most I can hope for is Hufflepuff,” sighed Neville, fidgeting at his sleeve. “I suppose it wouldn’t be too bad, apparently the dorms are nearby the kitchens.”

“Who cares what your Gran says?” replied Harry seriously, looking at Neville with his emerald green eyes. “Who knows, you could always be sorted into Slytherin like me,” Harry continued, grinning cheekily at Neville.

“Cunning and a dash of ambition would also serve both of you well,” interposed Mr. Lovegood. “That ambition has been darkened in the previous years, but ‘ _Deep roots are not reached by the frost’_.”

At this, Neville and Harry looked at each other. Harry gave a quick shrug and asked Neville if he would like to play a card game to pass the time until they reached Hogwarts. The two boys were quickly absorbed into a game of exploding snap, and Mr. Lovegood returned to a leather notebook which he turned this way and that as he scribbled in it with an overly large parchment quill, adorned with a sparkly blue raven.

“Are you a new teacher, Mr. Lovegood?” asked Neville when they had finished one of the rounds.

“No, no, no,” exclaimed the excitable Mr. Lovegood. “I have been kindly invited by the Headmaster of Hogwarts to do an expose of Hogwarts and tell the future wizards and witches of Britain what awaits them at the foremost school of magic in Europe.”

“Is it true we have to defeat a three-headed dog to get sorted?” asked Harry, his green eyes glowing with excitement at the idea. “My dad said that we would have to use our brains, brawn, grit or trickery to defeat it, and that’s how we’d get sorted!”

“My Gran said that it would be a boggart!”

Mr. Lovegood shook his head, and tapped a long finger to the side of his nose. “In my day, we had to capture a wild miniature pixie without using magic.”

“No!” cried Neville in horror. “I think I’d rather take Hufflepuff that _that_.”

At Harry’s confused expression, Neville explained: “Miniature pixies like to hide out in old drawers and wardrobes and make nests out of the things they find. They can get very protective over their collection-  so when you open the drawer where they are hiding, they bite and scratch worse than any Hippogriff! They’ve been known to take out a wizard’s hand or leg when they are angered!”

Harry winced. “How did you catch it?” he asked Mr. Lovegood.

The man smiled, and said mysteriously: “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

“Did you bribe it with some food from the welcome feast?” asked Neville.

“I bet he used some of the napkins to wrap round his hand, and snatched the pixie feet first!” retorted Harry.

Back and forth the two boys bantered, their ideas becoming more and more far-fetched with even Mr. Lovegood laughing good naturedly at their craziness. In no time at all, the Hogwarts Express was nearing its destination. As Harry was already in his uniform, Neville got up to get changed. He had barely yanked the heavy cloak over his head before he heard the faint sound of a bell up ahead.

“All disembark! All disembark!” cried a porter as they made their way up and down the train corridor, ringing his bell as he went. Out from all the other carriages poured all the Hogwarts students- proud prefects with shiny Ps on their breast directing the flow of traffic, first years like himself gasping and pointing at all the sights, and older students, back for another year at Hogwarts.

Neville and Harry stuck close together, Mr. Lovegood behind them, as they got off the train on to the station platform.

Up ahead was a singularly striking figure. A good foot or two taller than anyone Neville had ever met, the bushy haired man called out in a loud and carrying voice: “First yers, First yers, Over ‘ere!” Around him was already a small crowd of anxious first years.

“Good luck!” said Mr. Lovegood as he fairly pushed Neville and Harry into the waiting group of first years.

 “I’m sure you’ll vanquish whatever creature the sorting ceremony throws at you!” With that ominous advice, he swished away, his green robes flapping behind him. The iridescent fabric made it appear as if a thousand myriad eyes were opening and closing with every movement.

The enormous man was counting off the first years with a big, chunky finger. “Right, first yers, follow me.” Waving some of the more reluctant students to join the rest of the large group, he strode forward, his large lantern light showing the way.

The small narrow faced blonde boy they had accidentally bumped into gave them a nastily polite smile. He extended a cold hand and drawled: “Draco- Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the girl beside him, pushing her curly and untamed hair out from her face. “I’ve heard all about you in _Noble Families of Magical Britain_ and _Wizarding Trials of the 20 th Century_. I’m Hermione Granger, it was quite a surprise to my parents when my letter arrived out of the blue! They were so pleased when they learnt I’d be going to the pre-eminent school of magic!”

Before Malfoy’s smile could turn even more malicious, Harry smoothly cut between the pair, and warmly shook Hermione’s extended hand.”

“Nice to make your acquaintance,” he said, and gestured towards Neville. “This is my friend, Neville Longbottom.”

“I suppose you’ve heard all about the Longbottom’s in _Hilarious Heredity_ ,” commented Malfoy meanly as Hagrid in the distance began to instruct the other groups of first years to get into the boats waiting for them at the edge of a large lake.

“I’ve read all of _Stories of Noble Families_ , which does have some rather funny stories of how Dame Longbottom poked out a trespasser’s eye with her walking stick, but I’ve never read _Hilarious Heredity_.”

Malfoy gave the curly haired girl an incredulous look, but before he could retreat and re-join the safety of the other first years, he was yelled at by Hagrid to get into the next boat. With a disgruntled look, Malfoy clambered into the boat, muttering something about his father.

Harry and Neville got into the wooden boat next, helping Hermione as she scrambled in. Malfoy shrunk away from them with a mean, disdainful look on his face, putting himself as far away from the others as possible.

The others couldn’t bring themselves to care about Malfoy’s rude behaviour, for they were gliding across the black surface of the lake, the glittering castle of Hogwarts revealed in all its glory.

Neville nudged Harry as the boats approached the other side of the lake.

“Let’s stay friends even if we get sorted into other houses,” he proposed in a whisper. He wrung his hands anxiously – what would a powerful wizard like Harry want to do with someone like him whose magical power was little more than a Squib’s?

But there was no need to worry, as Harry’s face lit up in a beaming smile. 

“It’s a promise,” he said, and together they made their way into Hogwarts.

* * *

 

Thanks so much to everyone for all the support and kudos! I never expected people to like, let alone appreciate this plot bunny of a story.

Please review to let me know what house you think Harry will be sorted into and your thoughts! 

 

 


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